“Thar’s more of ’em about, Buffler.”
“They may be a good deal scattered, though; so we may see only this fellow.”
“I’m hopin’ it, Buffler.”
They saw another, in a very few seconds, on their side of the stream. He was armed and painted like the one who had just disappeared, but he was not so tall and handsome. His body was shorter and thicker, his arms longer, his sheer physical strength greater. He could not have run like the one who had just gone on, but in a rough-and-tumble fight he would have been an enemy more to be feared.
He not only looked at the grove where the white men were hidden with their horses, but he walked a few yards toward it, looking carefully at the ground.
Once or twice he stooped down and inspected the grass; and the scout and trapper thought then he had seen some faint indentations in the soil, and guessed of the trick that had been played. But the redskin retraced his way to the river, and went on, searching its shores.
“Phew, Buffler! I thought it war fight, shore thing, then!”
“I, too.”
“I reckon we’re safe hyar, unless they come back and take a notion to look behind these trees. If they does it, thar will be dead Injuns, and fun immediately afterward.”
The Blackfeet did not return. An hour passed, and then another, and nothing was seen or heard; but Cody and Nomad could not be sure that sharp eyes were not watching the cañon from some cliff or cañon precipice; hence they remained concealed in the grove, keeping the horses as quiet as possible, and talking only in low tones.